Deleuze003 德勒茲

Deleuze003b 德勒茲

Love Is For Other People 愛是為了別人

By James Brusseau

Translated by Springhero 雄伯


    …and, for that part which remains rebellious, to repress it as deeply as possible, to shut it up in a cavern at the bottom of the ocean—such is the aim of Platonism in its will to bring about the triumph of icons over simulacra

                                    —Gilles Deleuze, Logic of Sense





      Isabelle Eberhardt: born, Geneva, 1877, died twenty-seven years later, Algeria. She filled the years between with a wretched existence of malnutrition and aimless desert, Arabic culture. Through it all, she wrote. Her notes, journals, newspaper and magazine articles, short stories, and unfinished novels provide historians with elaborate accounts of North Africa during French colonialism. They also exemplify existence on Deleuze’s surface. Her life slips into the transience of insubstantial being. Her temporality denies continuity. The localities she establishes diverge in bursts. Alienation invests her relations to others and herself. This chapter documents those alienations, alienations that exist solely in Deleuze’s world, alienations that put the lie to Socrates.




                   Women of the Scar 疤痕的女人


   At the age of twenty-three Eberhardt wrote this imperative into her journal: “ Lead two lives, one that…belongs to the desert, and one, calm and restful, devoted to thought and far from all that might interfere with it.” This resonates with her kind of time. Moments divorce each other. One minute no longer needs to stick with the previous. Her short story Blue Jacket carries the same temporal structure. The protagonist, a young Arab conscript guarded with pride the scars across his powerful chest and biceps—scars made by knives and stones, and even by firearms—the result of women he no longer remembered.




   The conscript cannot remember. But if time runs straight through in the mode of depth—as a chain of resembling moments—then the scars never escape their physical origin. This kind of time disallows the conscript’s forgetting, or allows it in only a limited sense because forgetting cannot mean cutting an episode clean away; pervasive resemblance cannot be interrupted. This forgetting operates only imperfectly by erecting a mental boundary to enclose the section marked for oblivion. The boundary remains as its own scar of the deletion: you may not remember , but you vaguely remember something you are not remembering. Reading the way Eberhardt demands, however, for her own life and her own writings—reading on the surface and through a time absolved of continuity from one moment to the next—these scars cease all memorial functioning. The past is no longer covered over, it is sliced away. Forgetting succeeds. It succeeds absolutely, just as it did for Rousseau’s savage erasing every past night so completely that he sold his bed every morning. The story Blue Jacket requires this wild forgetting, one incompatible with resembling moments. Consequently, Socrates cannot fully appreciate Eberhardt’s story. But Deleuze can.






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